


Hunger

by AnnaRaven



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: But Unresolved Sexual Tension, High Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 20:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18858265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaRaven/pseuds/AnnaRaven
Summary: John Marston had known hunger all his life, one way or another - for family, for acceptance, for love. None of it came close to the ever-growing hunger that had no other name but Arthur.





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Red Dead fic, I'm a little hazy on when some people joined the gang so please forgive and overlook any mistakes...

John Marston had known many kinds of hunger in his life.

He’d known the hunger of an empty belly right from the day he was born. His father drank and gambled away most of their money, and the orphanage that followed had too many mouths and too little food. John knew no other reality than laying down at night with a gnawing ache in his stomach, his skinny limbs pressed painfully against a thin mattress. But even that was better than the bone-deep hunger of the years he slept rough, days and weeks at a time without anything inside him save for brackish rainwater and scavenged scraps. Then there were the days that he picked the wrong berries or took too-old food from a trash pile, and he knew the miserable hunger that came from purging an empty stomach over and over again.

He’d known the hunger for approval, acceptance, family. His father was disinterested at best, hostile at worst, and young John believed it was his own fault for being useless and lazy and greedy and every other name he was given. As he grew older, John’s fear and doubt became anger and bitterness. He became convinced that nobody else mattered, that love was a lie and that he didn’t need anyone but himself. He lived that way for a long time, until Dutch found him and gave him a home and everything he’d told himself about love began to ring hollow. A long-suppressed need for approval emerged and he began to do everything he could to be a good son, basking in Dutch’s approbation. Even though he had an uncanny knack for being clumsy, as likely to botch a task as to succeed, Dutch was ever patient and encouraging. It was a balm to his soul, that acceptance, soothing past hurts that had never quite healed. The fly in the ointment was Arthur Morgan, long established as Dutch’s treasured son.

At first John saw Arthur only as a rival, too young and foolish and damaged to recognise Arthur’s attempts at friendliness. Arthur responded by becoming curt and distant, dismissive in a way that made John want to push him all the more. After months of tension and disharmony, Hosea sat John down and told him a few truths.

_We brought you into our family because Dutch saw a spark of something special in you, John. You can build and strengthen our group in ways that nobody else can – not Arthur, not me, not Dutch. So this rivalry with Arthur has to stop, or else all you’re bringing us is division and sorrow. That’s not what you’re made for, son._

_Tell him, not me_ , John had snarled, surly and childish but unable to stop himself.

 _I have, believe me_ , Hosea chuckled. _But you need to know that he’s trying, in his own way. Arthur isn’t good with words like Dutch, can’t make a fancy speech like I can, but he’s been accepting of you from the start. I believe that if you two boys can bury the hatchet, you’ll have a friend for life in Arthur. And John, that would be a powerful and wonderful thing; I never knew a man so loyal and steadfast._ He’d been right, of course. John made an attempt at reconciliation, asking Arthur to teach him how to hunt. It turned out that shooting was a skill John was born to, and as they packed up beneath the sunset Arthur gruffly told him, _You did good today, Marston. I never met anyone took to anythin’ so fast_. His praise was so different from Dutch’s effusive smoothness, rough but genuine and worth more because of its rarity, and it warmed John all through the ride home.

He’d known hunger for human contact, simply to be touched - anything that showed affection was fine by him, rough or gentle or anywhere in between. Before Dutch, nobody had ever touched him except to hurt him, or move him away, or shove him into line. The first time Dutch patted his back John shied away from it, uncertain and untrusting. Dutch noticed and gave him space, but a few days later he did it again – a quick squeeze of his shoulder, affirming and brief. Before long, he began to live for the times when Dutch’s strong hand fell firm on his shoulder and praise rolled over him like honey. And Dutch wasn’t the only one – Hosea occasionally clapped his knee when they sat and read together, Annabelle often patted his cheek or squeezed him across the shoulders, and Bessie was fond of kissing his brow and sneaking him treats. Best of all was when Arthur would sling an arm around his shoulders and ruffle his hair with a condescending air, more often than not devolving into wrestling and laughing and scrapping until a smiling Dutch or Hosea stepped in.

He’d known the hunger for freedom, for wealth, for the chance to live his life without being told where to go or how to behave. From time to time he’d ride out into the middle of nowhere, along a towering ridge or a red-sand gorge, and just close his eyes and breathe. The gang was his family – Dutch an unwavering beacon, Arthur a tower of strength – but sometimes it felt like a lead weight around his neck. He could feel himself being pulled in deeper every day, and knew instinctively that he was too far gone to ever get out. Hosea had told him once that he was more intelligent than he knew, that he had the potential within him to be whoever he wanted to be, but it didn’t feel that way to John. From the moment Dutch took him down from that tree, his destiny was etched into the gang’s like a carving into stone; immutable, inescapable. He might dream of a life of ease and plenty, of family and love and contentment, but he knew it could only ever be a dream. The outlaw life was all he knew, all he was good for, because he’d been moulded and shaped to be that way. A hammer would always be a hammer, made for a purpose and fit only for that. Most days he could accept that, even make peace with it. Other days, it twisted like fire in his gut as he grieved for a life he could never have.

He’d known hunger for sexual release, his appetite stirring from around the age of fifteen. He knew the words to every lewd campfire song long before he understood their meaning, saw Dutch and Hosea kissing their women, eyed the ladies lounging on the balconies of bawdy houses. Waiting for Arthur one day outside a general store, he was approached by an older boy who had a bundle of dirty pictures to sell for 25¢. Some were photographs and some were line drawings, and John treasured the thrill that raced through him at the sight of naked breasts and bared garters. He kept the bundle tucked into his bedroll for years, until one day Arthur found it and began to laugh. John was almost eighteen by now, mortified at being discovered, certain that Arthur would hold it over him forever. But instead, Arthur told him to saddle up and took him for a ride. They followed the path of a lazy creek until it joined a river, sat in the lush grass on the bluff above and watched the ravens and crows trail across the cloud-brushed canopy of the sky. Arthur had some cold meat and fresh peaches in his saddle bag, and they sat quietly eating together until John couldn’t hold it in any more and told Arthur to just say whatever he had to say. To his amazement, Arthur began to talk about women and love and the mysteries of the human heart, and how a real man treated his lover with respect and care even if he didn’t plan on sticking around. He looked out across the vista while he spoke, never at John, and explained enough about how coupling worked to make John blush seven shades of scarlet. He told John how to make it good for his partner, how to keep it safe for both of them, unwittingly stirring a deep longing in John that had never been there before. When he was done, they rode home in silence and never spoke of it again.

After that, John began to indulge in sex whenever the chance came. He never paid for it – he needed to know that his lover wanted it, wanted him, without any other enticement – but by the age of nineteen he’d grown into his gangly limbs and sharp features so finding a willing woman was never too difficult. The first time a man had approached him, let a hand linger on John’s back, he’d felt the urge to run; after all, _cocksucker_ was considered the worst of the insults that got slung around at camp. But he’d also felt an undeniable burning curiosity at the idea of it, so after a couple more drinks he’d let the feller take him out to the alley behind the saloon and suck him off. He found that he liked it after all, rough hands on his body and coiled muscle under his touch, and after that night he bedded men almost as often as women.

John had known hunger all his life, one way or another. None of it came close to the growing hunger that had no other name but _Arthur_.

It started as John’s hunger to replace Arthur became a hunger to be like him. He knew he could never be a refined sort of man like Dutch or Hosea, but Arthur gave him hope that he could be an outlaw and still be a good man. Many times when they were out riding together Arthur would stop to help people who’d lost their horse or broken a cartwheel or gotten hurt. Sometimes he’d accept money but often not, doing the right thing simply for its own sake. He got cagey or embarrassed or even angry when John haltingly praised him for it, consistently rejecting the idea that he was or could ever be a good man. Whenever John asked him why he did it, Arthur would say, _I helped them because I could. What other reason do I need?_ It made John admire him, respect him, his regard shifting into something deeper as the years went by.

By the time he’d turned twenty, John had accepted that he was in love with Arthur and always would be. He craved the man’s company, his attention, his approval. He tried to hide it but thought maybe Hosea knew, though he never said so. Arthur certainly didn’t see it, oblivious to admiration from John just like he was from everyone. Arthur was a good friend to John, even affectionate sometimes, but never showed a hint of feeling anything more than a brotherly bond. Then Uncle turned up with Abigail, whose attention and affection gradually burrowed their way into John’s heart, and he thought that maybe he could give her the love he’d been holding onto for Arthur. It seemed like something changed in the way Arthur looked at him too, once Abigail moved her things into John’s tent; like he was seeing John as a man, an equal, and something about that burned deep and hot in John’s chest.

Everything changed one evening in early fall, sitting by the campfire with most of the other men. They’d been trading lewd stories for a while, competing with tales of who’d had the most women, or the most beautiful, or the most adventurous. Bill was characteristically vulgar on the subject, Uncle talked such bullshit that the others couldn’t stop laughing, Lenny spent most of the time looking anxious, and Arthur refused to be drawn into it though he laughed along with the rest of them. As it crept towards midnight and a cold wind began to rattle in across the hills, most everyone trickled off to bed. Arthur poured more bourbon into two tin mugs and handed one to John, settling beside him on a wolfskin with their backs against a sawn-off log. Across the flames, Sean elbowed Lenny and said, _You’ve the look of a man who’s ready to boke, kiddo. Don’t tell me you’ve never known the unparalleled pleasure of a woman’s touch._

 _I_ _have,_ Lenny nodded, _only I don’t much like talking about it._

 _Me neither,_ Arthur said. S _ome things should be kept private between two people, ‘f you ask me._

 _I_ _bet you’ve got some stories though, Arthur, a fine strappin’ man like yourself,_ Sean said, his grin flashing in the firelight. _I mean, what right-minded woman would say no to such a handsome feller, eh?_

 _Very funny,_ Arthur said dryly.

 _You don’t believe me?_ Sean asked with an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. _Trust me, Arthur, you’re a tall drink of water compared to most of the arse-faced goons around these parts – no offence, you two._

They all laughed and John nudged Arthur with his elbow, enjoying the flush of embarrassment and the smile that Arthur couldn’t hide. Sean turned to Lenny, leaning in as though sharing a secret. _And of course, sometimes a gang of lonely cowpokes will turn to each other for company, ifyouknowwhatImean…_

 _Sean, don’t tease the poor kid,_ Arthur said warningly.

 _Ah c’mon, Arthur, there’s nuthin’ wrong with it,_ Sean said with a dismissive wave of his hand. _We’ve all done it, haven’t we lads? Turned to a good friend for relief in times of stress? After all, who knows what a feller needs better than another feller?_

 _But that’s…you can get hanged for that,_ Lenny said quietly, glancing around.

 _You can get hanged for all kindsa shite, kiddo, that’s no indication of whether it’s right or wrong,_ Sean said flippantly. _Help me out here, Arthur, you’re a wise man of the world._

 _I guess it happens,_ Arthur shrugged, and John’s guts clenched hard. He wanted so badly to ask Arthur if _he’d_ ever done it, if _he_ thought it was wrong or right or somewhere in between, but then Sean was off on another tangent about some woman he’d met in town and the moment passed. The conversation moved on and John began to tune it out as the bourbon spread like smoke through his body. Beside him Arthur was laughing, a deep, soothing rumble, and John’s head nodded as sleep crept up on him.

He came awake to someone shaking him and Arthur’s rough voice saying, _C’mon, Mr Van Winkle, time to turn in_. He sat up straighter, rubbing his bleary eyes. Everyone was gone except Arthur, his hand still resting on John’s shoulder. The dying fire set rubies in Arthur’s eyes and a copper crown in his hair; John thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Without thinking, woozy with drink and half-asleep, John leaned in close to Arthur and kissed him.

Arthur’s lips were warm and dry, their roughness catching on John’s mouth. His hand tightened on John’s collar, then his head tilted and his lips parted. He smelled like woodsmoke and tasted like bourbon, and John’s heart filled to bursting with a sense of _right_ and _home_ and _love_. Arthur’s hand gripped him tighter, pulling him closer before suddenly pushing him away.

 _No, John,_ Arthur gasped. He stood quickly and stepped back, then turned and strode away.

John was after him immediately, croaking, _Arthur, wait_ into the darkness. He finally caught up as Arthur reached his wagon, grabbing his arm and pulling him around into the shadows where nobody would see them.

 _Get your damn hand off me,_ Arthur hissed, yanking his sleeve from John’s grasp.

 _Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean nothin’ by it_ , John lied.

 _Let’s just forget it,_ Arthur said, as rattled as John had ever seen him. _Nothin’ like that can ever happen between you and me, It wouldn’t be right._

An icy chill settled in John’s gut. _Wouldn’t be right?_ he echoed hollowly. _I never knew you were such a goddamn bigot._

Arthur’s eyes gleamed like a knife blade. _I didn’t mean it that way, and you should know me better’n that._

 _So, what then? Are you sayin’ you don’t think of me that way? Only…you kissed me back, Arthur._ It was needy and plaintive but John couldn’t help that.

 _I know._ Arthur’s voice was quieter, regretful. _Seems like this past year or so, I…well, I don’t see you the way I used to, I guess. But I shouldn’t have taken advantage._

 _I’m a grown man, you didn’t take advantage of nothin’,_ John scoffed. _I wouldn’a done it if I didn’t want to. If I didn’t want_ you, he added quietly.

 _John_ , Arthur said, voice hardening, _don’t do this._

 _No, Arthur, listen to me. if it’s what_ you _want, and it’s what_ I _want, then why the hell not?_ John persisted, giddy with the possibility that Arthur might say yes. _Just for tonight, why not?_

 _You’re a fool, John Marston,_ Arthur hissed, dangerous and thrilling. _Have you forgotten that Abigail is asleep just over there with your baby in her belly? It don’t much matter what I want, you have a family now._

 _It ain’t like I’ve made any promises to her,_ John retorted. _If the kid is mine I’ll do my part to provide for it, but me and Abigail ain’t exactly love’s young dream. I care about her and all, but we can barely say a civil word to each other and I don’t know if that’s ever gonna change. And what’s the point of bein’ with someone if you only make each other miserable?_

 _So tell me, then, how it’s ever gonna get any better if you ain’t even willin’ to try? I can’t let you throw away a chance at somethin’ good just for some lowlife like me,_ Arthur said, certain, final. _Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen here tonight except you and me gettin’ some sleep and forgettin’ this whole conversation._

 _Fine then, let’s all do whatever Arthur wants just like always,_ John shot back, hurt and angry, stalking away into the trees. For days afterward there was a prickling tension between them, and Arthur kept out of camp even more than usual. But gradually it faded, and then Abigail had her baby and the whole world turned upside down.

John had never felt like more of a wretched failure in his life than he did when he held his son for the first time. He knew he should feel love, protectiveness, devotion, but all he really felt was fear and inadequacy. Abigail was lit up from the inside in a way he’d never seen before, her smile bright enough to light the skies whenever she looked at Jack. When she whispered one night, _I’m so happy you’re my baby’s father, John,_ he felt something very much like panic stirring. Because he knew what she didn’t; that he could never hope to be a good father or a good husband, or a good anything except for _outlaw_. Every bad thing he’d ever believed about himself came surging over him in an overwhelming fog and for days afterward he yearned to ditch everything and run. The only thing that kept him there was the look in Arthur’s eyes when he saw John with his son, the pride and approval that John would do anything to see.

One evening by the campfire, Arthur sat beside him and offered him a cigarette. While the others sang and laughed and prattled away, Arthur leaned close to John and said, _I know how hard this is for you, bein' made a father before you were ready. But I see you steppin’ up to the job and I…well, I’m glad for you, John. I…care about you, and I want good things for you._ He went silent a moment, staring into the flames, and said, _I was a father once upon a time, and I did a piss-poor job of it. He’s a gift, this baby o’ yours, and I know you won’t waste it the way I did._

 _Alright,_ John said dumbly, his heart a lead weight in his chest. Arthur’s faith in him was too much, because he could never live up to it. If even Arthur – good, thoughtful, canny Arthur Morgan – couldn’t meet the standard of fatherhood, then how the hell would John ever get there?

And so, that night while everyone slept, John threw his few belongings into a bag and kissed Abigail’s forehead, then Jack’s. He walked to Arthur’s tent, studying the man one last time as though he could etch the image onto his brain – the way his hair fell across one eye, the softness of his parted lips, the strength of his broad shoulders and thick thighs. Heart clenching and throat prickling, John led his horse far out of camp and then rode as hard as he could until the dawn broke along with his tears.

He stumbled off his horse at the edge of a red pine ridge and fell to his knees, wracking sobs wrenching their way out of his chest. He cried for the boy who would never have the father he deserved, and for his own lost childhood too. He cried for the heartbreak he was causing Abigail, knowing that pain and hardship were the only gifts he’d ever given her. He cried for his forsaken family, for Dutch and Hosea and the way things used to be. But most of all he cried for Arthur, or rather for the loss of him.

Whenever Arthur thought of him now it would be with loathing, with condemnation, with contempt. It tore at his heart to imagine Arthur hating him that way, speaking his name as a curse. But he knew it was better for Arthur to hate him like this, all in a rush and from a distance, than to watch the regard and respect slowly fade from those expressive eyes. If Arthur was going to lose his faith in John, better by far that he wasn’t there to see it.

When the sun lit the treetops with pink and gold, John packed up his camp and set off on his way. He had no real idea where he was going other than a vague ‘out west’, knowing it was the last direction that Dutch would take the camp. He had no plan other than finding work as a day labourer, perhaps on the railroad or in one of the logging camps further north. Every mile took him further away from the only family he’d ever known and into a future stretching bleak and empty ahead of him. He didn’t know what lay in store or if he’d ever be happy again; he only knew he could never go back.


End file.
